


Thinking over

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Getting Together, Relationship Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-26
Updated: 2009-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's sulking now, and she's aware that she could simply walk away if it distresses her so. But if she does leave, she'll never find out whether this will work or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking over

It's a quiet place even though it's not empty. If the atmosphere is lively, she has to gather that by the look on the other customers' faces: smiles, pleasant expressions and subdued voices, or at the very least, blurred enough that they could be talking about weather forecasts or engines and it would be the same, she would never know. She considers that whoever designed the place must have taken into account this, that people like them —even if they're not quite people— could sit, have a meal and a drink or two, and all of this without being bothered by the noise of the neighboring tables.

She eyes him. Since he's still far from finishing his food, she's forced to continue with her thoughts.

Very soon she's staring at the plaster on the ceiling and the columns of concrete, old contrasting with new. She's reminded of her house after the war was over, of drafts and blue prints of all the places that had to be patched up, remodeled into something different altogether or built from scratch. It must have been the same here; each detail must have been carefully put into paper and carried out with precision, right on schedule. Of course, there's no way to know whether that was the case. Maybe the construction took longer than planned, halted because of a lack of funding. She has seen that happen often as well.

She also realizes it's all his fault that she's wasting her evening thinking of the backstory for a bistro. Couldn't he say whatever darned thing was on his mind already?

"I'm thinking," he says when he's pressed to give an answer, scraping the last spoonful out of his plate.

"Well, color me surprised," she replies, not hiding her annoyance because they have always been honest with each other, sometimes to the point of being cruel, but always honest. He's sulking now, and she's aware that she could simply walk away if it distresses her so.

But if she does leave, she'll never find out whether this will work or not. So she stays and takes a sip from her drink, lips imprinted on the glass in a soft shade of red.

"I give you a couple of minutes more of ,thinking‘." She draws little quotes in the air around the last word, and one of her hands is lower than the other because that's how it works with both of their languages. But the similarities between them stop right there and then, since Hungarian, however melodic, is close to impossible to get right. Naturally, she prefers to talk in German for his sake.

At last, he opens his mouth, but instead of speaking out, he takes a swig of his beer. Hungary wonders if her accent reminds him of Austria. She hopes it does and that it bothers him; she's tired of waiting.

"Okay, here's the deal," he says after forever and a day.

"I'm listening."

He pulls a piece of paper from who knows where, along with a pen.

"This is you," he says, scribbling a most unflattering and skinny portrait of her: a stick figure with a skirt, a single bending line as hair, and a flower. She doesn't know why, but she giggles at the flower.

"I see."

"And this is me," he says, and she doesn't know what his point is going to be, but he's almost looking proudly at his own stick figure. 

She tries not to laugh and points at the asterisks surrounding him. "Are those sparkles?"

"Sure, I'm awesome, remember?"

At this, she just laughs out loud. "Go on."

"And we have history." He draws a line below before continuing to pour ink on paper, and she has to admit that the tiny stick figures —a Teutonic Knight with an oversized cape and herself with the tiny ponytail— are kind of cute. He puts the pen aside for a moment. "It wasn't so bad back then, was it?"

"It could have been better," she says, looking into his eyes and realizing he's expecting her to say something more, so she adds, "It wasn't so bad at times, I guess, when you weren't being a pest."

"You were jealous because I had a dick and you didn't," he says with an air of smugness that takes over his features as effortlessly as always.

"Had? You don't have it anymore?" she teases. He frowns and is about to say something obscene, most likely, so she sticks the tiny umbrella from her drink in his mouth. He spits it.

Next to their child selves, he draws another pair of figures, and she notices the growth because the lines are longer, more elaborate. They're holding weapons and they look as intense as stick figures can look. She's supplying the expressions, really, there's only so much one can read in a blank face. Behind her, there's a blob.

"What's that?"

"Ah," he says, drawing an arrow and writing 'pansy' at the end.

"That doesn't look like him," she complains.

"I never said that was Austria, did I? See? You think he's a pansy too." He laughs, and she kicks him under the table, although not very hard.

"Alright, alright." He adds glasses and a cravat and a curl that she supposes is Mariazell. It's a rather distinguished blob, now.

"We hated each other then, huh?" she comments.

"I hated the blob," he says, downing his beer.

She smiles at the fact that he used the past tense.

He keeps drawing their shared history. It's not like she has forgotten about it, but he seems to remember much more than she does, for there are things she can't recognize at first sight. It's either that, or the stick figures are not as telling as one would think.

"And before you ask, this is a Trabant. It's enough to set the scene, I believe," he says, and she agrees because she can recall everything from that era as if it had happened barely a month ago.

"So," he holds the paper for her to see, "this is us."

A rather complex spider web of stick figures. It makes sense, somehow. "You do notice that in most of these we're standing at opposite sides, right?"

"And that when we don't, we're still at odds with each other? Yeah, we're hopeless," he says with a smirk, and she can't tell what he really thinks of it all; he's now looking elsewhere.

He takes a deep breath. "My first point as Devil's advocate: We don't know how to get along."

She's supposed to take the role of the defense, then. "And yet here we are, talking."

"Yeah, well, I guess," he says, wrinkling his nose.

"How many points are there?"

"I thought of three. Point number two is," he starts, and now he's just making random shapes, squares and circles, just doodling away, "we have different circumstances, you and I. You have things to deal with, while I... Well, West takes care of almost everything, and I have these concerns of my own, legacy and what not, but I'm mostly stress-free."

"That's nice."

"It is," he says with certainty, grin back in place. "So, point number two: I have more free time than you or West, and talking about him, I barely see him these days, and when I do, he goes on and on about work this, work that. I don't ever remember being as remotely busy as he always says he is." He's glancing her sideways now, making the pen roll towards him and catching it before it falls, over and over again.

She takes the hint. "I'm not a workaholic. And I always find enough time for myself." _For us_ , she doesn't say. Instead, she grabs the pen to poke the back of his hand.

He shrugs like it's not really important. "Cool, because I'll have you know, I couldn't stand more of that. I'm way too amazing to be ignored."

She chuckles. "And point three?" she asks, and outside the sky is changing, getting a darker shade. Prussian blue, she thinks amused.

"Point three being that you must be used to all kind of tacky things," he says, pointing at the blob with the pen back in his hand. "And if it's too important, I guess— I guess I could try, out of a magnanimous whim, but it's not going to happen often."

"Tacky things such as?"

He frowns like listing them is particularly offending. When he finally speaks again, he lets it all out in a continuous stream, words bumping into each other. "I'm not giving you flowers or playing little corny tunes for you or lulling you to sleep with boring poems or whatever he did and I'm telling you now so you can't complain later."

She wonders if that's what he really thinks after watching her and Austria all of those years. Back then she smiled more often than not, is that what he saw? That even with the headaches the dual monarchy was bound to give them, her face lit up whenever her husband was around? And it's true that he did give her flowers from his own garden and composed Lieder for her, but it was his presence that she enjoyed the most. If she seemed to love Austria's details with such passion —and she did— it was because she was in love.

Doesn't Prussia know that?

It occurs to her that maybe he doesn't, because her life on the other side of the fence, on contrast, was gray and that's what Prussia —East Germany— got to see. It might also be her fault for keeping to herself that while there were no gifts wrapped delicately, a familiar face —even when he got on her nerves— was also comfort.

"...and you know what to expect from me, I hope."

And she nods, because she expects him to be annoying, eccentric and beyond insufferable. She also expects him to be full of energy and contagious idiocy, and loud whenever she can't take more of the silence, and rough and gorgeous and she's never telling him that last part or he would get full of himself. That is, more.

"…but I'm being sincere, and... that's that. And if you don't accept the whole package, well, it's your loss and..." He rehearses his boisterous laughter, but it doesn't come out quite the same. "And mine too, fuck," he says a little more softly, grabbing his napkin and strangling it with his fist.

There's quiet then, and the mumbling from the other tables arrives again. "I don't need flowers or music or poetry," she says without looking at him. And yet, from the corner of her eye, she notices he finally releases the crumpled fabric and sets it on the table. "And you know what to expect, too. Fights, for example, we're going to have so many of those."

He smiles, folds the paper he was scribbling on, and puts it in his pocket. "I have waged wars far more terrible."

"Don't underestimate my wrath," she says half playful, half serious. Then, she asks for the check and both of them pay their share before putting on their coats.

"And another thing we have on our favor," she starts, and he steps outside first, stopping the door from closing on her face with a shoulder, "is that we already know each other so we don't have to pretend things we're not."

"So, have we reached an agreement?" He's looking at the red figure across the street, its little arms open.

"The agreement that, things considering, this could still fail, but it would be stupid not to try."

"And we're not ones to run away from shit," he says, and she nods. "So."

"So," she echoes, "extend your hand like this." He raises an eyebrow but does as he's told. In answer, she presses her palm next to his. "Now, curl your fingers like this," she instructs, and he complies. They're holding hands by the time the light changes to green.

"And next we start walking," she says, feeling her hand getting warm in his. "Does it feel too weird?"

"A little." He clears his throat, looking ahead before squeezing lightly. "But it's also kind of nice."


End file.
